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Becomes Today

What by night would seem adept,
And then, by day become a blur?
Last night’s shadows, over slept,
Reluctantly they stir.
What by night would well appear,
And by day be all but hidden?
The candlestick, the chandelier,
Of use the two are ridden.
What by night is wide awake,
And then by day retires?
The possum by a moonlit lake,
With sun its scene expires.
. The moon by sun is chased away,
. And so last night becomes today.

To the reader: We live in a riddle; a reasonable muddle. A right answer is often so lame with correctness it needs a little adjustment. Some creative correction is what makes good things better; and better things great. From bland to grand takes an obscure course. At arrival, having passed through the riddle, a good answer is adorned with the crazy sparkle of unexpected discovery… aha!

To the poet: The familiar form of the riddle, with its question/answer format, frames this sonnet. The phrase “What by night?” established the seek and find enquiry. Two problems followed. Firstly, contrivance. The thought of ‘what happened over-night while I was sleeping?’ is easily outstretched; laboured to a tedious length. Secondly, miscellany. There’s little achievement in reaching into a grab-bag of ideas. Lucky-dips may write lists but not poems. What rescued this sonnet is its final couplet… an answer worthy of the question.

Join the Journey

Author: Tim Grace

At the beginning of February 2010, I was at Brisbane Airport, in transit and on my way to Brunei. A hectic one-month work assignment was looming and I knew I would need some way of releasing my 'off task' thoughts. Fortunately, as it turns out, the airport bookshop had sold out of its copies of Catcher in the Rye (J.D. Salinger died a few days earlier - 27/1/2010) - so, next to his empty plot was a copy of Shakespeare's Sonnets.
The seven hour flight to Brunei was the perfect length to finish all 154 sonnets. Obviously, there are some brilliant poems in amongst his life's work; but there are the occasional verses that leave you wondering. Read in a single sitting the sonnets collectively tell of an artist who was easily smitten by love, had an obsession with his mirrored image, was haunted by his increasing age and looming mortality. He often uses the changing seasons as a metaphor for these themes which are expressed in the context of a semi-rural environment.
While on assignment in Brunei, I resided at the Abdul Ruzaq serviced apartments and to escape the need to make a new eatery decision each night I surrendered my eating habits to the Charcoal Grill. At a table for one (and set for four) I usually settled into a routine consisting of menu selection, sonnet readings, dining; and to finish - a brewed coffee as the accompaniment to my own sonnet writing.